


These Were Lies #2: Joyce

by voleuse



Series: These Were Lies [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayert
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-07
Updated: 2005-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I will not speak of the undying glory of women</em>.<br/>Nine women Spike used to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Were Lies #2: Joyce

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through S5. Title, summary, and headings taken from _Not Marble Nor the Gilded Monuments_ by Archibald MacLeish.

_The words sound but the face in the Istrian sun is forgotten.  
The poet speaks but to her dead ears no more.  
The sleek throat is gone - and the breast that was troubled to listen:  
Shadow from door._

 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Spike stops by the Summers home.

Not for any particular reason, but when he sees the kitchen light on, he knows Joyce is waiting for her daughter to come home.

And when it's two in the morning, and he sees her silhouette pacing, something in him twinges, and he's compelled to knock on the door.

*

 

When she first opens the door, there's hope, then panic in her eyes.

He guesses what she's thinking. _Maybe it's Buffy_, then, _What if it's not?_

"Just me." He musters a smile, cheerful as can be. "Was in the neighborhood. Thought I might stop for a cuppa." He lets his voice rise on the last word, infuses it with hope.

She responds, relief at the distraction sweeping over her face. "Of course," she says, opening the door widely. "Come in. I'll make some hot chocolate."

He murmurs, "Thank you," and hangs his coat up before he sits.

*

 

The marshmallows fascinate him. They fizz quietly in his cocoa, float even when he pokes them with his spoon.

He looks up from his mug to find Joyce grinning, and he sets his drink down. "Never had these before," he explains. "Back when I was, well." he shrugs.

"Really?" She folds her arms on the table, leans forward. "Do you mind if I ask--"

"A hundred years, give or take a few decades." She looks impressed, and he waves the century away.

"You grew up in England?" At his nod, she props her chin in her hand. "What was that like?"

He thinks back, turns history over in his mind. In hindsight, it seems stifled, ridiculously pompous. But that's not what she wants to hear, he thinks.

So he tells her about having a proper tea every afternoon. About glimpsing royalty as their carraiges were trotted down the boulevards. About seeing ships sail, and not knowing anything about their destinations.

And he tells her about his mother.

"You remind me of her," he mentions, and she pours him another cup.

*

 

He lays flowers on her grave every week, in secret.


End file.
